


no use talking (i'm a dead man walking)

by bratwonders



Series: Comictober [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: As you do, Damian Wayne-centric, Gen, Hell, VERY brief mention of rapists and murderers, Violence, damian becomes the king of hell, damian wayne is dead, it gets pretty bloody, kind of evil damian, semi-happy ending, this story isnt religious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26880949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratwonders/pseuds/bratwonders
Summary: Some deity made a stupid decision, and now Damian Wayne is in Hell. Luckily, this situation can be rectified.Day 1 of Comictober: Death
Series: Comictober [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961182
Comments: 2
Kudos: 81





	no use talking (i'm a dead man walking)

**Author's Note:**

> Six days late to Comictober, but here I am! Sorry for the delay.

Damian does not deserve to be in hell. This, he knows as fact.  _ Yes,  _ he was a murderer. A cold blooded killer in the hands of the League. Damian’s soul was poisoned, his heart was forever mutilated by his bloodied hands and the eyes that had witnessed too much, too  _ soon. _

He killed people who were deserving. People who raped, pillaged, murdered. And he felt joy doing it, looking into their eyes as he slowly sucked away their life force, having complete control over the life of someone who had spent too long thinking they were untouchable.

He also killed people who were  _ not _ deserving. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons. People who had just been trying to get by. He remembered once -- he’d been ordered to kill a woman who had gotten too close to their base for comfort. She was suspected to be a spy they’d been hunting, he remembered looking at the document of the spy, and then the woman, and he remembered thinking,  _ they don’t even look alike. _ But he had a mission to fulfill, and he could  _ not  _ disobey direct orders, he wasn’t even supposed to think twice about them. Voicing his concerns could result in  _ dire  _ consequences.

So, he went down, he took his sword and he impaled her. He watched the blade go through her skin and organs, appearing from the back covering in slick red blood, her face going deathly pale and eyes rolling back. He remembered wondering, just for a moment, what it felt like. The blade through the skin. Dying. (How’s  _ that  _ for foreshadowing?)

He dragged her body to the front gates, sheathing his katana back into place. Hours later, they’d realized she was not the spy, simply as lost as she had claimed. And Damian took her life, for nothing.

They dumped her body in the ocean, forgotten, discarded, not even bothering to search for a family. Damian went back to his room and cried silently for the first time in his life.

He wasn’t innocent, that’s for sure. But -- but even so, even then, he was a  _ child.  _ Just a  _ baby,  _ not even old enough to  _ drive.  _ He was so young. And it wasn’t fair. 

Maybe —  _ maybe  _ if he had never been Robin, he would understand. If he had just killed and killed without remorse, without care. If he had gone his whole life thinking what he was doing was right. (Even though he was  _ groomed, indoctrinated, manipulated—) _

But that wasn’t even  _ true.  _ Damian was Robin — he was good, he was a hero. That’s what Dick told him, that’s what Bruce told him. His past didn’t define him. No — no, he’d never be able to take back the lives lost and blood shed, but he could  _ change, redeem  _ himself, he could be a  _ hero  _ if he wanted to. Couldn’t he?

Apparently not, according to the damned universe, because he’s in hell and he is suffering everyday and every night for  _ what,  _ for being a  _ child  _ and being  _ manipulated  _ and seeking approval—

In the eyes of whatever deity had decided this fate for him (even in Hell, he didn’t know who it was, people in Hell didn’t  _ get  _ that luxury), being Robin was simply not enough. Not enough to wipe his sins off his back. Well…

Well, fuck that decision. Being bound to this fate —

Damian always hated  _ fate. _

And fate didn’t  _ need  _ to control him. So, he decided. Chained down, but not defeated, he’d do something to earn his  _ right  _ to end the suffering.

  
  
  
  
  


Death had told him breaking out of his chains was impossible. The suffering would never end, that even after the last star in the universe had burnt out he’d be no closer to the end of this turmoil than right now. Damian believed him, because what was the point in not?

But death was wrong. Damian had ripped through those chains like  _ paper.  _ His muscles were aching, not from exhaustion, but  _ anticipation, _ from the  _ need  _ to rip the heads off everyone who led him here, who  _ allowed  _ this. Allowed an eleven year old child to suffer in Hell for actions that were never  _ his fault. _

He looks at his wrists and frowns. The skin is inflamed and raw from his struggling, and even brushing his hand over it causes an agonizing sting. Well, that would heal in time, and Damian had more pressing matters. He jumps up, his stomach swooping uncomfortable as he gains way more air than he was expecting, before gently dropping to the ground on his feet.

He quickly realized that his limbs were not weighed down like on Earth — the rules of gravity didn’t seem to apply. He could jump as high as he cared to, perform cartwheels over pools of acid, run on walls. His kicks, jumps, fighting — it was like a dance, almost. And well, if he’s dancing in hell, at least he finally gets to  _ dance. _

He smiles at the freedom he’s finally allowing himself to feel.  _ This is my redemption,  _ he thinks with pride.  _ This is it. _

  
  
  
  
  


Finding death himself is a feat in itself. It’s elusive, that’s for sure. It doesn’t want to be found — probably because there are so many people who want it’s head on a silver platter. Death has pissed off a  _ lot  _ of people, and Damian would relish in the moment it finally got what was coming to it, by Damian’s own hands. He could imagine how it would feel — he imagined how he would do it. His mind meticulously formulated  _ so many ways  _ to get the job done, his fingers trembling with the anticipation to snap its neck, squeeze its eyeballs, pull its teeth out. 

Well, he could cross that bridge when he gets to it. For now, he has a long journey ahead of him.

  
  
  
  
  


Hell, it turns out, is not a very interesting place. Well — perhaps that depends on perspective. But, to be honest, Damian isn’t very impressed.

There are no walls and no ceiling. There is no landscape, besides the boulders that the souls are chained to and the human bones on the ground. Damian kicks at a small skull — perhaps another child? — half-heartedly, watching it roll pathetically across the terrain. The ground was rocky and cracked, like a concrete road that hadn’t been paved over in a long time. There was no life to be found — no grass, no flowers. Nothing  _ alive  _ could ever live here.

Maybe Damian was less out-of-place than he thought.

  
  
  
  
  


Damian sees a lot of poor souls on his way to death’s kingdom. They beg and wail,  _ let me go. Give me another chance. Please. Let me go. End this. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. _

Damian tunes it out. While there is a chance these people deserved every bit of torture they endured, there is also a chance that there were people like Damian, who were  _ good,  _ yet still deemed unworthy by this malevolent deity. Damian’s heart lurched, and he wanted to help, but he would have plenty of time to do that after his mission was fulfilled.

For now, he keeps walking. Once he takes control,  _ he  _ will be the one to decide who is worthy of this torture.

  
  
  
  
  


At long last, after… a month, two months? He hasn’t really been counting -- he makes it to death’s kingdom. It’s… underwhelming. It’s really small -- maybe the size of the manor. It’s damaged, like Damian isn’t is the first to have this idea. The only difference between him and them is that Damian will  _ succeed. _

There are two guards at the front gates, but they don’t look very… professional. The only thing that seems to keep them upright are the metal collars around their necks attached to the walls. One of them fiddles with their scythe, and despite the fact Damian is only a few meters away, neither of them notice him. Or if they do, they don’t care.

Damian is cautious. This could very well be a trap. Or, they could be leading Damian into a false sense of security before they strike. For some reason, Damian doesn’t think either of these are true. But, better to be safe than sorry.

Taking the guards down is pitifully easy. He sneaks up on them from behind and snaps their necks. They don’t have time to scream before they collapse on the ground with a  _ thud.  _ Damian almost feels bad. When he kills the first one, he manages to get a glimpse into the second one’s eyes. He’s not… not scared. Not angry for taking down his presumed friend. He looks… almost joyful. There’s no smile, barely a twitch on his face, but his eyes do the talking. He feels… resolve. Damian almost regrets stealing the scythe and slicing him with it. But, all he can do is silently hope they’re somewhere else now (but there’s no way to escape Hell, he thinks grimly), as he continues inside.

The hallways of the kingdom are hauntingly quiet. There isn’t a single guard beyond those two in the front, no furniture or riches. The place is a maze, and Damian explores for what must be a full day, every room and hallway as empty as the last.

He’s growing irritable. Not good. His feet hurt, heart pumping with the exertion of walking for hours without end, and he just wants to find death and rip its tongue out.

  
  
  
  
  


It has to be two more days before Damian finds it. He takes a deep breath and bursts through the doors, holding his scythe close to his chest defensively. Death, finally, is in his sights. And what an ugly sight to behold.

Damian wants to describe what he’s seeing. Maybe so that, when souls ask, he can tell them. But it’s physically impossible. It’s like describing what infinity looks like. Death is -- its  _ death.  _ It’s suffering, Damian’s stomach pools with icy dread, like acid in his throat, the way your esophagus stings after you throw up, the feeling of standing up too fast and feeling your vision black out, the hot chill that rushes through you right before you pass out. Damian turns his head to the side and throws up, not able to hold it back. Death smiles in satisfaction, this must be normal.

Damian stands, swaying dangerously as his legs don’t seem to want to support him. He grips tightly onto his scythe, only to widen his eyes as he realizes he dropped it at some point. What the hell?

Death seems amused by the sight of Damian so utterly unprepared for this battle. It cocks its head boredly and, though it doesn’t have a face, it smiles. “Ah.”

Death’s voice is crunched, it’s distorted,  _ inhuman,  _ no one would ever be able to understand it. But Damian can, it passes through him as if it were his native tongue, the words — they don’t make sense, but they  _ do,  _ and Damian can understand it. Maybe because Damian is more monster than human at this point — maybe because this is what he’d been destined for all along.

“Al Ghul.” It hisses, and it knows Damian hates that. That’s why it says it.

“Don’t call me that, beast.”

“I’m sorry. Would you prefer  _ Wayne?” _

He presses his lips into a thin line.  _ No.  _ That would be even  _ worse.  _ He’s not Wayne, he’s not Al Ghul — he’s Damian, he’s the Demon Brat. That nickname always left a sour taste in his mouth, but now — right here, right now…

He  _ loves  _ it.

He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. This isn’t about nicknames, it’s about  _ titles.  _ He is not Damian Wayne, he’s a Demon Brat, he’s  _ The Boy Who Killed Death. _

“Cut the theatrics.” He finally mutters, not an ounce of dread in his voice. The initial nausea had worn off, and Damian was standing tall despite his short stature. The absolute  _ conviction  _ in his manner is enough to make death freeze, if only for a moment. Then it snaps back to normal, pretending it had not just been momentarily  _ afraid  _ of Damian. Damian smirks. 

The fight starts. Damian initiates it, perhaps because death had secretly hoped there wouldn’t have to be one. It lasts a long,  _ long  _ time, nine days of an unending fight, a battle of brains  _ and  _ brawn. Damian’s weaker, but he’s smarter, and he has the advantage of mobility. He can move wherever he wants, jump from the floor to the ceiling, dodge death’s attacks easily. He also has a _ cause. _ Death is fighting because it has been presented with a challenge. Damian is fighting because he has  _ no other choice --  _ this fight is everything he will  _ ever  _ amount to, and if he can’t win this, then who is he?  _ What  _ is he?

He’s the Demon Brat, he’s death’s successor. He  _ will  _ earn that right -- he cannot fail.

On the first hour of the tenth day, Damian  _ wins. _

Death had taken the form of Dick Grayson, for reasons unknown. Damian had a few theories — perhaps because it thought Damian would be more reluctant to fight something that  _ looked  _ like Dick, or that Damian would be thrown off guard. But death was quite the fool to think that -- Damian’s mind was stronger than that. Sure, when he first saw his brother’s face on that monster, he was terrified,  _ furious,  _ but he quickly swallowed it down and fought  _ harder,  _ because how  _ dare _ that beast try to taint Dick’s perfect legacy. Dick would  _ never  _ have wanted this.

Damian has him pinned now. Dick --  _ not _ Dick -- death is struggling, its clawing to get away from Damian’s foot on its back. Damian grabs it by the hair and flips it over, raising his scythe and digging it into death’s chest and--

Well, let’s skip the gory details.

Damian pushes the body aside, covered in bruises, cuts, blood from both him and death. He smiles and lets a small giggle slip through his lips, full of mirth, genuine, untapped  _ happiness.  _ Tears are flowing freely down his cheeks and he slumps down, the exhaustion of the last few months finally weighing down on him. His body feels like jelly, and he loses control of all of his senses as he lays there.

He can get some sleep, can’t he? He’s earned that. He hasn’t slept… since he was alive, really. He deserves a few minutes, at least. Death will still be gone when he wakes. He has all the time in the world to take Hell under his control. For now, he can just lie down, and  _ rest,  _ and when he wakes up, everything will still be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @bratwonders


End file.
